by Mary Lide
'God's teeth,' he swore, 'lady, will you never give up? Your audacity would make a strong man blanch. Should I cower behind your skirts? If you want a mannequin, look to your son. These be men's affairs.' He towered above me, a full head taller, broad of shoulder, his wet shirt plastered to his skin, his eyes their darkest gray, narrowed like a cat's. I could see his fingers itched to box my ears. But I had never let him see that I was afraid.
'Should not I have some knowledge of your plans?' I asked. 'You mock me that I am no wife to you . .'
'Wife,' he said. 'Of late I've had but little evidence of that. Look at your sad face, like widow at a burying. This is a day to rejoice in; you turn it to my funeral. Not that as widow you'd make a man's heart leap, more like to half-drowned sheep than wife.'
'Not much better yourself,' I cried, scorn completing what his anger could not do. 'One of your serfs picking reeds.' I would have kicked at him had I my boots on. 'Go romp with them if you lack for sport. No doubt you've had your fill of village maids these past months.'
He eyed me, not smiling exactly, as always perverse. When he had prodded me to rage, his own was gone.
He said, 'Had your Sir Renier come one day late, you could have blurted all the truth out. This is a day to celebrate. At least you could wish me joy. I have been wounded before; I know when a wound will heal. If I can use my right arm once, I can again.'
I could wish anything as long as it not be here,' I said. 'I wish he were my Sir Renier. He treats me with courtesy.'
'Courtesy is as it is found,' he said. 'Kind words do not always mean kind friends. "Go romp with the peasant maids," you said. Perhaps I shall.'
He spun on his heel, whistled to his horse. It came trotting up on its tethering rope, a workaday horse, yet it answered to his call. He caught at its bridle, loosened the rope, vaulted on its back.
'Perhaps I shall,' he repeated, 'likely to afford me better game.'
He kicked his horse with his soft boots; it cantered off. At the cove's edge, he wheeled, leapt off, then on again, came galloping back. I stood and watched him, tugging at the knots in my hair. In England once last year, Henry had mocked at him. At my knighting, Henry had said, I could leap upon my horse, full-armed. Raoul, can you? Raoul, scarcely able to walk, had not replied. Today he wore but shirt, braies and soft boots, was not armed except for sword and belt; one day again in full mail, I was sure he would show the king that he could equal him. He veered to my right, splattering sand. I felt the rush of his passing brush me, as once more he leapt and wheeled, putting all his weight on his right side. His long hair blew back, he smiled, dropped the bridle, stretched out both hands, thus balanced, rode as if with wings. I thought suddenly. Dear God, even anger today is but a show. This is his pleasure welling up from his heart core, that he must display it to the world. I looked at him, a man turned into boy, or a boy who feels himself a man, his strength restored and, with it, his hopes, his pride. Once more he swept round to gallop past.
Now, he could not know, nor anyone, that as a child, my dearest wish had been to see my brother ride like this, to have him leap upon his horse, set me before him, ride across the sands at Cambray. And, as suddenly too, it seemed to me that the years had rolled back, there was no time, and I was as young, as happy then. My brother, Talisin, still lived, my father lived, and all my life was centered here. Almost without thought I stepped full into his path, raised my hands. The woolen gown slid about my feet in a sodden heap; in kirtle only, I waited for him. Back he came at a gallop straight for me. I never flinched. At the last second he reined back, bringing his horse to its haunches, snorting and panting. I stretched my foot for the stirrup iron, too high, until he bent to pull me up. I sat in front of him, his other hand clamped about my waist. He flicked his horse's sides; we galloped off through the rush beds, water spilling beneath our heels. I clung to the pommel and let the wind carry us away. There was no time, I say, carefree we rode, Sieux and its dangers gone from thought, count and countess lost somewhere else. And after a while I leaned against him, felt his body's heat through the damp linen on my back, felt his exuberance mounting like a sap in a tree, felt the thudding of his heart.
Gradually, we dropped back to walk, came to another sandy stretch. Without speech, he swung me off, dismounted himself, stripped off belt and shirt, his hose, his boots, let them fall where they dropped. He took me by the hand and drew me into the lake; when its creamy depths swirled about my waist, my cuts and scratches burned.
'Jesu, Ann,' he said, 'you have been missed.' He smoothed the hair back on either side of my face. 'Ann,' he whispered, 'I would not hurt you again or do you more harm. I thought to see you die that day. Not remember how my son was born? Each day I have thought of it.'
The sun fell on us, gold-flecked, the levels of the lake stretched into a heat mist. I smiled up at him. He reached down, tore off my shift, it floated away. He put his hand upon my neck where the pulse beat. 'I hoped,' he said, 'to prove that you had not forgotten me.'
I smiled again, and stretched out my hand to touch his face. The line of the scar ran faint beneath my fingertips. He swallowed hard, 'Dear God,' he said, almost to himself, 'what should a man do and still be man?' He slid into the water in front of me; with his long legs, he parted mine, dived beneath, brushing between with all his body's length. Up he came, slowly along the spine, breathing warm against each bone, tracing out each knot until he came to the shoulder blade. The water fell in great drops on my breast; he bent and kissed each drop as if drinking it. Then beneath the water he went once more; I felt his mouth brush each thigh, felt it travel from cleft to waist and down, running like fire. His hands tightened along my back, fingers parting at the crack, thrusting, as he reared up; my legs caught high above his, he leaned me on the pillow of the lake, bent over as he thrust within.
Sun and fire, the water's cool, his flesh like silk, I wore him as a second skin, buried in, no space for breath, only light that fell in golden showers. Before even that time was done, he had carried me to the grass bank, stretched me out, parted me, slid in again. The air blew up the wild scents of mint and thyme; against my ear he breathed, running with a fingertip along each arm, each breast, each inner thigh, a circle cupped with but one liquid core. And when he rolled upon his back, he fitted me to his body, a coverlet to keep him warm, a sheath into which to plunge himself. I arched back to his desire. 'Take me,' I cried, my heart cried, 'a hundred different ways.' And at my neck bone he mouthed the same. ‘Embrasse moi, touche moi, ma mie.' Impaled, imprisoned, imprisoning, we came to peace; nothing but sun and sand, the water lapping far away.
It seemed a lifetime before the world spun round. Perhaps it was. One can live a lifetime in a few hours. The day had grown chill when we thought of time. Within his saddlebag, he found a cloak to cover my nakedness, for my kirtle had drifted off somewhere and my gown lay waterlogged upon a bank. I helped him strap on sword belt, and sword, and, by and by, gather his other gear where he had left it. It was these things, men's gear, war gear, that brought the present back. And with it came those questions which had burned in my brain all night.
'Why should those Normans plot and plan? What does Sir Renier seek for the queen? Why does King Henry come to France?'
He reached round to clamp his hand across my mouth.
'Mother of God,' he said, 'like to swamp me, more questions than this lake has floods. Be patient. They will be dealt with in due course.'
I wriggled free of his grip, exasperated that he still would not answer me. 'And you,' I cried, 'what will you do at Sieux, what of your English lands?' He tried to silence me again. When I resisted, he slid back on the saddle to give me room.
'Careful,' he said, for the horse had begun to start and skiddle about, 'like to toss us on our backs—although I could become used to it.' And he grinned, that lopsided grin that made my blood run warm.
'No secrets then, only what I know or guess. I have told you many times that the Norman barons are bred for war; they crave war as
a starving man craves meat. Now Henry's lordship over them has been too harsh for their taste. For one thing, if they do not jump to his commands, he is more than capable of pulling their castles about their heads, which does not please them you can be sure. They like to fight only if they win. To topple Henry from his Norman dukedom would more than satisfy them, and Henry's brother gives them the excuse they have been looking for. Henry's brother is younger and suffers from a common younger brother's complaint, the lack of land. So now he lays claim to all of Henry's French lands that Henry inherited, and the Norman barons will support him in his rebellion. Both Henry and the rebels will seek my help (why else should Sir Renier come here on Henry's behalf?). But both sides, to be blunt, would prefer I be unable to fight at all. And no one wants Sieux rebuilt; much better for them if we are finished as a power in central France. When the truth be learned that Sieux is already partway restored, and I sufficiently recovered of my wounds to be more than capable of defending it, why, both sides may have to pause and reconsider what they will do next.
'As for Sieux, my intention for it is simple, too. It is an idea I have come late to understand, but my grandfather, Raymond, maintained that, just as Sieux was situated between north and south, so in policy, it should act as a balance between contending sides. Raymond was considered a wise man in his day, noted for his diplomatic skill. At the start of the English civil wars, he tried to keep a neutrality between King Stephen and the Angevins. It was I who, for my pains, broke his rule by siding with King Stephen. For my pains, say I. Dearly have I paid for them, that Henry should have thought to have revenge on me. But if I can. I'll hold the balance in France again, maintain Earl Raymond's neutrality. Ann, I know these Norman lords; they fight to serve themselves. Let Henry's brother take note of that.'
'Who is this brother,' I asked, 'how called?'
'You may well ask. Soon all of us will know him. Geoffrey Plantagenet, his father's name, whom they say in all things else he is like. Geoffrey le Bel was his father called, the fairest man in all of France, and of all men the most treacherous. Now Geoffrey, the son, claims the right to his brother's lands, and to Henry's titles, even those of Count of Anjou and Maine. The way of that is strange, too. Count Geoffrey, on returning from a successful expedition to the French court, full of triumph then, still in his prime and young to be father to these sons, he plunged into the river Seine. The sun was hot, he took a chill.' Raoul grinned again. 'We know the consequences of bathing in a lake,' he said. 'Count Geoffrey's were not so pleasant for him. He died. But before his death he wrote a will, or rather, not knowing how to write, had the monks where he lay pen it for him. In this will, he left to Henry, his oldest son, as is just, the paternal lands of Anjou and Maine. But if Henry were to inherit England, which seemed most like, then the second son, this Geoffrey Plantagenet, was to get them instead. The nub of the whole affair lies here. For when Count Geoffrey died, Henry was away hunting, a dutiful son, in faith, to follow the deer while his father dies, but then hunting is his most cherished pursuit. He returned to find the will was writ and the monks clamoring for him to agree to its terms. For Count Geoffrey had made them swear never to lay him underground until Henry had accepted it.'
I shivered.
'Yes,' he agreed, 'a cruel wish, made and sealed by cruel men. Myself, I think it strange that the Count of Anjou would sign away lands from an eldest son. William of Normandy, first of the line, left Normandy to his eldest son; it was the second son who got England, for England was counted the lesser of his possessions. Nor, to be frank, should Henry give up Maine and Anjou. Lacking them, his other lands in France are two halves of an eggshell, without the meat. But Henry made a mistake as well. Out of grief, or under threat of force, he agreed to accept the will. On the putrefying corpse he so swore, placed his hands on it in most holy oath. Henry has lived to regret that oath, but the younger Geoffrey holds him to it. Well, Geoffrey Plantagenet inherited three castles as a younger brother's share; in spite of Henry's solemn oath, Geoffrey might wait forever for the rest.
'And what is more, he'll lose those three castles too if he threatens Henry over them. But I will tell you two other things which Sir Renier, not knowing well either Normans or English, may not understand. One is that, even if Henry and his brother tear themselves to shreds, not a single English lord will help Henry in France. In England we have had war's reality; the man who would seek a pretext for it is nature's fool. That is my opinion, although you would accuse me of wanting war. And second, those Norman lords will never make a move again until the spring. They prefer to keep the winter months for their other loves such as hunt and feast. Too wet, too much mud, too cold for fighting, no profit for them until then. And, before the spring, Henry will have come back to France . . .'
'How can you be so sure?' I blurted out. 'Mewed up as we are, how can you know that? And what of the attack on us?'
My first question touched him on the raw. Beneath his faint sunburn, I think he flushed. His answer was steady, without rancor.
'I may live the part of a wandering knight,' he said. 'How did you call it, like a serf, but at King Louis's court I am a count. Word comes to me. My scouts bring news; sometimes even Louis sends it. We do not live so isolated as you think. As for the attack at Saint Purnace, it was neither well planned nor well placed. It had all the signs of a Norman plot, brute force and not much skill. Those Norman barons would have liked our gold. They need gold to pay rebellion's costs but, being greedy, thought to take you, too. Thank God they failed. So your squires, I think, already have explained. But remember that those Normans never make a move unless some great power backs them to give success. And this is something Sir Renier himself must have told you.' A reprimand this, if gently given.
'And now I will tell you why Henry will come to France, the truth—to do homage for all the lands he holds of King Louis; to be acknowledged by Louis as the overlord of all those lands and men and to show the world what is his. Such an open display of power is a challenge to Geoffrey Plantagenet, and will not please the barons who hope to support Geoffrey's claims. And there is one other person it will not please—Queen Eleanor. For Henry will also do homage to the French king for her lands in Aquitaine, and those the queen had hoped to keep for herself. She will protect her lands as any vixen with her cubs.
'Now, what the queen and Sir Renier plan, I but guess at and Sir Renier may be simply gathering news. Yet I suspect the queen may regret having given us the means to rebuild Sieux, as much as Henry regrets having given us the cause. What her intentions are, better I think you do not know. And since kings and queens seldom keep faith long, unless at spear-point, better too, I think, to follow my grandfather's advice and steer clear of them.'
We had been riding forward all this while and were come almost to the castle gates. He turned his horse's head toward the village and paused. I bit a last question back, Suppose they force you to choose a side? Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind.
'Ann, trust me,' he said. 'If not this season's end, another one, or another, will see the building of Sieux complete. I'll not leave my French lands until that's fairly done. Nor for pride, if you will call it such, shall I go back to England because Henry commands. Let him beg for that. There's my revenge. I'll go when it pleases me. But do not you put your trust either in royal messages or royal gifts.' He hesitated. They say,' he said at last, 'that when Queen Eleanor left the French court, her marriage to Louis annulled and she hotfoot to reach the safety of her own city of Poitiers, she was ambushed on the way south by this Geoffrey Plantagenet. Ambushed or met by design, who knows. He claims she promised to marry him, and slept with him to seal her vow. He was only a boy, rash, reckless with ambition. She may have been as reckless herself.' He shrugged. 'Sir Renier would not have spoken of that either I am sure, yet it is commonly believed the queen became Geoffrey's lover as she had been his father's but weeks before and, on parting, promised him her hand. A second oath then, that has been broken to his great loss. But they say t
oo that the queen feels she owes Geoffrey some recompense. They say she supports him.'
Raoul mused a while as if to let his words sink in. Perhaps they did, although, since the queen was my friend, I was not the one to harbor gossip against her. Nor Raoul the man to speak evil without cause. That at least I could have remembered. When I did, it was too late.
At last he roused himself. 'But while we wait until the spring,' he told me in his decisive way, 'I've no intent to become their plaything for them to bat between their paws. Neutrality does not mean sleeping in the sun. The more our enemies seek to use us, we'll use them.' He paused again to throw one last question out himself. 'You'd not return to Cambray without me then?' There was a new urgency in his voice, as if he had been debating with himself. Perhaps it was a point he was not easy on; perhaps he too had not slept last night.
'Ann,' he said, almost to himself, 'this has been a special day. No man can feel a man who is not fit to guard his family or his friends. No,' as I tried to interrupt, 'it is so. How shall I forget the way my men were used, my companions betrayed, my wife seized? God has given me back my strength. I pray to make good use of it. But there is no other answer to Henry than what I gave. And one day shall Saint Purnace be repaid.'
He framed my face between his hands. 'Nor have I forgot my son's birth. It is branded on my mind, white hot. By the Mass, I thought you gone, he gone, and all my hopes turned to ash. I've not thought much on sons,' he said, almost shyly now, 'a man does not unless they come. Then it is another sort of bond.'
He paused one last time, almost broodingly he spoke, 'Nor would I want another such memory to my charge. The old she-wife spoke true if that is all the payment there is for lust.'
